


Harry Potter and the Should-Be Paradox

by HeavensAether



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood Quill (Harry Potter), Child Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Theory, Master of Death Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parseltongue, Parseltongue Kink, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slytherin Politics, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tags May Change, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavensAether/pseuds/HeavensAether
Summary: Harry Potter wasn't most people; most people didn't kill the most dangerous Dark Lord ever known as a teenager, most people didn't become the Master of death by accident.Most people didn't travel back in time to try and change the same Dark Lord who they killed, who killed their parents and caused the death of everyone they'd ever cared about.But of course, Harry wasn't most people, and that's exactly what he did.~1943 was a strange new time, and sharing it with Tom Riddle was even stranger. He was cold, and obsessive, and he seemed to have taken some sort of interest in Harry, even though he'd only gone there to try and oppose him. It was funny, really, he wanted to go, insert himself into Slytherin so he could watch from the shadows, pry for information, and now here he was performing Dark Magic with the very man who murdered his parents—who he killed—for no reason other than that he wanted to, and that he liked Tom almost as much as Tom liked him.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 5
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, welcome to my fanfic! Please be aware of the trigger warnings placed on this story, and the fact that there might be more added later, so look out for notes that might warn you.
> 
> This is cross-posted on Fanfiction.net under the name Stormcloud Visions, yes, that is me, it has not been stolen.
> 
> Thank you to Jack and Jenn for looking this over for me, you guys are amazing!
> 
> If you enjoyed give a Kudos, maybe a comment, thank you! Enjoy!

**“ Y** ou wish to go back and fix things,” Death said; it wasn’t a question, and it was so fucked up because he’d already said the same thing a million times, and they’d had the same conversation in the same place like a  _ million  _ times already.

And they’re standing in the middle of The Battle Of Hogwarts Memorial Cemetery, staring at the solemnly silent graves of his friends and family, and it just felt bitter and tired at that point. Harry was suddenly feeling weary and exhausted. “Yes,” he answered stiffly, because he always had the same answer—unable to lie—when he was staring at the buried corpse of his friends and family and peers. Sirius, Remus and Tonks, Fred and George—who killed himself mere weeks after the war ended—even Ron and Hermione had fallen to a rampant group of Death Eaters at the twin's funeral. They had fought valiantly and had fallen with their wands filled with freshly-cast spells.

“Would you?” Death asked.

“What could I even do?” Harry said bemusedly, “kill Voldemort?”

Death gave him a side-eyed glance. He’d shown up one day with each of the three items Harry had strived to get rid of, proclaiming him the Master of Death, immortal and impossible. “If you wanted,” he said airily, shrugging, and glancing away with feigned disinterest, and Harry stilled.

“You’re joking…”

Death shrugged again, which Harry could tell was a yes.

“Why?”

“You’re my Master, your wish is my command—besides, you have a long time now to do whatever you want, might as well have fun with it, you know?”

Harry turned, gripping his wand tightly in his pocket, until his hands went white from the pressure. He wasn’t worried about it breaking, he knew it never would again. His eyes were cold and glittering like cutting emeralds against Death’s steel grey. The entity felt an icy grip of pride in his chest that he had gotten such a strong, confident presence as his master. “You’re being completely honest with me right now? You’re serious?”

Death held up his hands placatingly, “what reason would I have to lie?”

Harry cast a suspicious stare at the Being, mouth pursed. “So… what do you want me to do, then…?”

An amused expression flitted across his face for a moment, before it faded back to blank. “You’re the Master now, remember?”

Harry blushed and glanced down, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh… right,” he shuffled his feet absently, worrying his mouth between his teeth. “I… guess I’ll go pack my trunk. What time period are we going to?”

“That depends,” Death shrugged, shifting from one foot to the other in response to Harry’s movement. He looked suddenly alive and animated; he was like a statue brought to life by an intriguing conversation.

“On what?” Bloody hell, the amount of dancing around he needed to do with Death was insane. Every conversation was a battle of wits and words, it was a desperate struggle just to worm any kid of information out of them.

Death’s stare was always cold, dead and milky silver, calculating and predatory. “You,” he said simply, as if it was obvious, “what do you want to go back to do?”

Harry hesitated, “Change the future…?” He asked hesitantly, unsure. He didn’t even know what he was being offered here, not completely, at least.

Death huffed impatiently, “Yeah, I’d gathered that. You know what, I’ll start you off. Here we have two options—you can either go back and see what killing him does, or you can go back to try to change him and his actions. You choose.”

He thought about it, deeply, genuinely; he actually  _ thought  _ about it. Could he actually go back and kill a young, helpless Tom Riddle? Could he potentially go back in time and slaughter someone, a child, in cold blood—racist fanatic and genocidal murderer who’d killed his parents and caused the deaths of everyone he’d ever loved—or not. Honestly, he didn’t know if he could, if he could raise his wand with steady, unshaking hands; stare dark eyes down with a cold, unflinching look and cast the curse that had ruined his entire life. It had swept through mercilessly, with absolutely no remorse for the pain and suffering it had caused and carried with it like leaves on a cool wind breeze.

No, he decided. No, he could not.

“I-I want to change his actions…” Harry stuttered reluctantly.

Death gave him an almost approving smile. “Good, then go pack your stuff, Master.

And with that, he’d sealed his fate


	2. Chapter 1

**O** h, hell, he was back in 1942 with an ancient, immortal being, a trunk full of stuff, his wand, and every penny to his name. This was going to be a disaster—and honestly? He was going to love every minute of it…

“First stop, new robes, I stand out a little too much for my liking,” Harry muttered, while his robes weren’t that different, they looked a little out of place. Death was perpetually invisible to anyone except himself, both a curse and a blessing. He would have to be extremely careful not to be seen talking to thin air now that his notoriety was null. Back then people would have let it go, after all, he was the hero of the wizarding world, he’d killed Voldemort, who cared if he talked to himself a little bit sometimes? However, Death liked to bug him when it was the most inconvenient, seemed to be a bad habit.

Madam Malkin’s was too full of Hogwarts students, particularly first years, and so he hardly registered walking into the robe shop in Knockturn Alley, the same one he’d started using when swarming fans and masses stopped him from getting his robes at the usual shop.

“‘Ello there,” a short, brunette woman said with a smile, coming out of the back. She was on the prettier side of average, and she looked quite friendly. She was eyeing his strange style of robes with the hunger of someone curious about a new type or technique to their craft and passion. She wiped some sort of dye off her hands with a rag absently. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a whole new wardrobe, please,” while Harry managed to hide his surprise at the sudden presence of a mild French accent in his voice, the woman did not. He waited until she turned her back to grab her supplies, before shooting Death a startled look. They just smiled slyly. “A few regular robes, and two formal.”

She smiled teasingly at him, “you call that a whole new wardrobe?” He flushed, “you need at least five casual, three formal and a set of dress robes to be considered a new wardrobe, at the bare minimum.”

“Fine, yes that.”

She winked at him, then ushered him up onto the platform. “Alright, let’s start.” The first five casual robes were black like ink, stitched with minor embroidered silver, just enough to be accents, but without being too much he would be called out for it at Hogwarts. Next were the formal robes. The first was also stitched with silver, and the inside was a gorgeous emerald green that matched his eyes well. One was entirely a dark, almost-black green with elaborate silver buttons and etched patterns in the same colour. Finally was one that was entirely black save for the similar theme of silver buttons and patterns as the other two. Then, dress robes. A dress shirt as white as freshly fallen snow, a neat collar to cover a snug dark green, silk tie. The black overcoat ducked low down his chest, held together with silver buttons with etched swirls and dots in it. The robes were green silk on the underside as well, the top was just as dark as his hair, twined with the same shining thread of silver. He really did have to admit, he looked like a Slytherin through and through.

When the woman finished up, he wasn’t in pain from being poked and prodded like he usually was, and he found he was actually, _really_ happy with his new clothes. He ended up back in one of his casual outfits, stuffing his old robes back down into his shrunken trunk. 

“You look nice, kid,” she smiled, stepping back to admire her handiwork, “you in Slytherin?” What was he meant to say to that? He wasn’t even Hogwarts, although he would have to be. He would need to be portrayed as pureblood, a powerful half-blood at the very least if he even wanted Voldemort to look at him. He couldn’t just pretend to be a Potter, or even a Black, how would that play out? Hi, yes, I’m Harry Potter, a relative of yours from the future, or hi, I’m Harry Potter, a random distant relative you’ve never heard of. Fact is, he couldn’t, which meant he would have to fake being some kind of pureblood. Death had given him a light French accent, which, to be fair, would probably help him a lot in that regard…

“Uh, no,” he finally answered when he realized the silence had grown thick and confused, “no I’m… not a Hogwarts student yet, I’m from France.” Man, what kind of story was he going to come up with now? She nodded, and turned, heading up to the counter.

Harry said goodbye and paid for his clothes, leaving them in his trunk.

So what could he do? Just pretend to be a random French pureblood? There was a war going on, he could say his family had been killed in it… it would make sense, and he had started learning a bit of French after the war with Fleur, so he could pass if he needed to. It would make sure no one would look too hard into his background. It would explain away many social inconsistencies.

Okay, so he was a secluded pureblood from France, he could get behind that backstory—or, at least he could remember it.

Harry strolled down the streets of the wizarding world, taking in the sights and the sounds and the people. Things… hadn’t actually changed that much… He wondered what that said about people so trapped in their ways they refused to change for more than fifty years, even when everyone else around them had.

He needed a new bank account, and a place to stay, which meant a visit to Gringotts was in order. He wondered if he could get the Goblins in on his little time travel adventure and have them forge him some documents; or, he could just have Death do it. “Death,” he whispered, glancing around. He hadn’t noticed the entity had gotten off somewhere while he’d been distracted, which wasn’t all that surprising, actually.

As usual, however, Death was back at his side, all dark hair, grey skin, and dead eyes. He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow in question.

“Can you fabricate some documents for me?”

Death snorted. “I’m not doing all the work for you. I’ll get you a birth certificate, and some family records, but not much more than that. You need to be able to figure things out on your own if we’re gonna go gallivanting through time. You’ve gotta sort out your bank account, your living situation, and your acceptance back into school on your own. You’ll thank me for it if you ever get stranded on your own.” It made sense, he needed to know how to be able to take care of himself on his own now that he was the Master of Death—not that he couldn’t before, mind you, but handling things when you were in your own time period, where you were comfortable was much different.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go set up my bank account and housing situation, while you go to get those papers, yeah?” They didn’t answer, just vanished, and Harry sighed, taking that as a yes, and made his way to Gringotts. He’d been as careful as he could to keep his voice light and quiet, and so far no one had noticed anything was off, so he figured he was alright.

Harry pressed open the door to the bank, slipping silently into the crowd. People barely shot him more than a glance, if any, which he very much preferred to the usual stares he got whenever he decided to go anywhere out in public.

He made his way up to the nearest Goblin, giving a terse smile and waiting until he looked up before he started speaking.

“Good morning,” he… had no idea how to talk to Goblins. “I would like to open a bank account here at Gringotts, who must I see to do that?” He asked, watching as the Goblin cast a judgemental eye over him, his clothes and his hair, and the fancy designs etched neatly into his buttons. 

“What is your name?” Harry thought fast—his French was decent, and he wanted to throw out some kind of hint to someone, whether that be Tom Riddle, or Dumbledore himself.

“Harry Mondérobé,” he blurted, and shit that was way too obvious, but it was too late to take it back now-

He made a noise in the back of his throat, before gesturing for Harry to follow him.

“This way, hurry up.” Harry was led down a short corridor, and left to stand before a room with the name ‘Garlok’ carved with neat script into a gold plate while the Goblin knocked and slipped inside.

It took a few minutes before he returned, his gnarled face twisted into a sharp-toothed smirk. “You may enter, wizard boy,” Harry fought a flinch at the final word, forcing himself to ignore it, keep his face blank and empty. He tried not to remember his uncle Vernon standing over him, shouting red-faced, ‘Boy, what is this freakishness?!’

He slipped inside, eyes immediately drawn to a Goblin on a pedestal, behind a high risen desk. He glanced up from whatever he was writing, setting aside his quill and gesturing to the seat across from him, folding his hands neatly. He was intimidating, cold eyes sharp, but Harry refused to let himself be cowed, no matter how much his heart trembled, and his panic answered. He felt ready to draw his wand, but doing so would only get him killed.

“Mr. Mondérobé, welcome to Gringotts,” he was slightly more pleasant than the first Goblin, his voice was gravelly and outwardly friendly, but it was filled with a mockery of warmth, an imitation. “You wish to open an account with Gringotts? May I inquire as to why, and how much money you have?” He understood quite quickly what he meant, they wanted to be sure that he was a loyal customer, and wouldn’t just up and withdraw his account in a few weeks for some kind of scam, they also wanted to know how wealthy he was so they knew how to treat him. Sure, his robes looked new and expensive, which is probably why they had brought him to Garlok in the first place, rather than someone lower in the industry. He didn’t know how much money he had, but he was sure lending the Goblin a peek into his bag filled with gold would ensure that he received good treatment. He would try to lie as little as he could, as the best and most believable lies were always the ones rooted in truth.

“Due to extenuating circumstances I was forced to move from my home, and that meant, unfortunately, leaving behind my former bank, as wonderful as they were,” a little flattery would get you anywhere, “I have heard praise all throughout the Wizarding World of the Goblin’s might and ruthlessness when defending the gold of their customers, and I couldn’t help but be drawn in by them. I have a good deal of gold, you see, and having it stolen would lead to… unfortunate hard work for the Medi-witches.” He received a toothy smile in return. Man, speaking formally was annoying, but it seemed like he would just have to get used to it now that he was in the forties.

“I see,” Garlok said, “and how much do you have exactly?”

Harry floundered a bit, “More than enough for the best of your services,” he settled on, watching greed grow in Garlok’s eyes with a bad feeling in his chest. He’d always felt uneasy and on edge around the Goblins…

“I see, then let us proceed.”

~

Harry stumbled out of the meeting about an hour later with a pouch charmed to fill with gold from his vault whenever he needed, and—surprisingly enough—some property listings Garlok had sent him on with when he’d said he needed to find a place to stay. All the listings were quite fancy now that he was looking at them, elaborate manors and mansions. Despite it being certainly within his price ranges, he just wanted something small, like an apartment. He didn’t need much, it would only be his home for the summer months when he was out of Hogwarts.

There was one that he wasn’t opposed to, a slightly larger-than-average, two-story cottage sequestered within a large forest, and made of dark-wooden logs. It had three bedrooms, a master and two spares, as well as three bathrooms. He had to admit, it was sort of appealing to own his own home, and that way he could have any guests he’d like (with a little room for them, of course) without too much worry of neighbours banging on walls, and he could keep it preserved as a base-camp all through time. It would give him a place to retreat if he needed to, and not having to worry about hiding the fact that he was talking to Death would be nice…

The price was actually quite low considering he got the cottage and the surrounding property in the deal—although it did warn the place needed repairs, and the house did look a little run down. Oh well, a pet project was exactly what he needed during the summer while he waited for Hogwarts to start up!

I mean, he was sure Death—who always crowed at him went he spent his days listless and empty—would be very happy to hear he was filling his summer with something productive and worthwhile.

Alright, he liked it, even if it was still slightly overly fancy for his tastes. He figured he would eventually grow into it. Besides, if he was going to be keeping the company of purebloods, it would do to have something a little extravagant.

Speaking of, Harry decided as he settled down in The Leaky Cauldron with a quill and some parchment, drafting a letter to the wizard selling the cottage, he honestly didn’t know if he could pretend to be a pureblood. Sure, he’d learned manners watching the Dursleys for so many years, but muggle manners in the nineties was a lot different than pureblood manners in the early forties. Not to mention he had no idea about any of their customs, how could he fake that? What if he made some sort of grievous error and outed himself? It would be much easier to tell the truth—he was a half-blood. It could possibly make it harder for his little plan of espionage (get in, watch Riddle, be there when things go down to change them) to go through smoothly, as he would be posing as a half-blood instead of pureblood, and considering the prejudice…

Either way, it was the best option.

Now, onto what would hopefully be his new home.

_Dear Mr. Hornpoult,_

_My name is Harry Mondérobé, and I noticed the listing you put up of your cottage a few days ago—the one of log, in Trenling Woods. I was wondering if it was still available, and whether or not you got any offers, as I am interested. It is one of a few properties I am browsing with intent to buy. The price is reasonable, and the location isn’t so horrible either._

_I have only a few questions if the property is still available. First, how large exactly is the property? Is everything up to code and standards? How recent are the images, exactly? Are there any major problems or issues I should know about beforehand to prevent an accident?_

_Thank you for taking the time to read my letter, I hope you haven’t already sold, although it won’t be any problem if you have, and I will gladly move onto the next._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Mondérobé_

Then, after—and only after—he’d written his letter, did Harry realize he had a problem. While the Goblin had been polite enough to provide him with a quill and some parchment, and Tom (owner of The Leaky Cauldron) had lent him an inkwell when he asked and promised to pay for it, along with the charges of his room, Harry didn’t actually have an owl to send the letter with.

Hedwig… was amazing, and he knew he could never replace her, but he did need a new owl.

Harry slid from his seat with a sigh, glancing around briefly at the patrons of the bar before he headed up to his room, where he left the letter square in the middle of his bed so he wouldn’t forget it when he returned. Then, he headed off to buy an owl, tucking his cloak slightly tighter around himself as he made his way onto the slightly colder streets of the evening.

He’d never actually been in when Hagrid had bought him Hedwig, so he’d never been in there with the express purpose of getting a pet, but he’d bought treats for her there plenty of times.

The man behind the counter gave him only a brief glance, before returning to whatever he was doing, leaving Harry in peace to browse the shop.

Owls, cats, kneazles, snakes, rats, they littered cages all about the cramped store, and Harry felt like the walls were closing in on him. It was too enclosed, there was too much stuff, and it made his breath short and his chest tight with a familiar panic.

A small hoot caught his attention.

Honestly, he didn’t even know what in particular it was about the sound that drew his attention, plenty of owls were hooting all around him, and cats meowing, and snakes hissing in a raspy language that sounded too similar to English for his taste.

It came from a small barn owl, though not like any he’d ever seen. She was entirely dark, like chocolate, with smooth, sleek feathers and golden eyes, far too intelligent for just a regular owl, and it reminded him of Hedwig.

She was beautiful, and she shimmied her wings, inching forward. Not like she was nervous, though, no, it looked more like she was trying to get him to stop being nervous. He obliged with a smile and stepped up to the bars, reaching a finger through lightly in an offering of friendship and some pets.

She contemplated it for a moment, before making a happy noise and leaning forward to let him gently stroke a finger over soft feathers. He smiled, even let out a little laugh.

“Hello there,” he said, knowing very well that she could understand him, even if she couldn’t talk back. “I’m Harry, how would you like to come home with me?”

She nibbled softly on his finger, and he swore she was smiling as he lifted the cage into his arms. “Wonderful, come on now.”

He paid for her and then headed back to the Inn, and up to his room. His letter could wait until he at least gave her a name, he decided.

Harry set her down on the bed next to him and unhinged the latch. She hopped out with a grateful noise, stretching and fluttering her wings. Harry gave a wince of sympathy. “It hurts not being able to stretch, huh? Having to sit there, all cramped…” He certainly knew what that was like, his cupboard had grown quite small for him by the time he was moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.

She hooted.

“Guess we should name you, huh?” He asked after a moment, watching as she cocked her head at him curiously.

“You should name her after a Goddess,” a familiar voice intoned from the corner of the room, and Harry turned to see Death watching them with crossed arms, eyes dark and empty.

“A Goddess?” Harry asked cautiously, if Death was real, did that make Gods’ and Goddesses real too? It was a possibility.

They shrugged, “yeah, I think Nyx suits her quite well. She was believed to be the Goddess of Night, one of the first.” So they didn’t exist…?

Harry turned to her, examining sharp, golden eyes with a slight smile. “How do you like the name Nyx? Nyx and Harry?”

Nyx hooted her approval.

He smiled and gave her a quick treat. “Okay, Nyx, I’m sorry to have to ask you so soon, but do you think you can carry a letter and its response for me?” 

She thought about it, but nodded, and jutted her leg out for him to tie the letter to.

“Thanks, girl. Take this to Mr. Hornpoult, okay?” He unlatched the window and pressed it open. Her dark wings sent her rocketing into the night, a smudge of dark brown against black, and he soon lost her, much faster than he ever would have lost Hedwig with her dazzling white plumage.

“I see you’re already making living arrangements, you’ve dealt with your bank account—I believe I underestimated you, Master.”

“I killed Voldemort and became the Master of Death when I was eighteen, I’ve been fighting a war since I was fourteen, and defending myself against people who wanted to harm me since the day the Dursley’s took me in. I’m not a child, no matter how young you think I might be.” He snapped, eyes flashing coldly, and he turned away from Death to sit down at the provided table, grabbing the ink and quill laying nearby, and the single piece of parchment he had left. He needed to draft a letter to Hogwarts, Headmaster Dippet was in charge, but hopefully, he would still be willing to take in a new student who had lost everything—and that part wasn’t a lie.

He didn’t even need to look at Death to know they were rolling their eyes. “Touchy subject,” they grumbled, and trotted right up to where Harry was working to sit on the desk, just far enough away he wasn’t physically interfering, but also close enough Harry could feel the cold like ice radiating from him. “Alright, listen here kid. First, you’re gonna tell me your plan for the next few years, I’ll leave you the records you need, and then I’m gonna leave and do my job. I’ll come back if you call me, but don’t expect me to grant every wish you’ve ever had, okay? I’ll pop in from time-to-time to check in on you, but other than that you’re gonna be on your own. First, where are you living?”

Harry clenched his jaw for a second, before forcing himself to calm down, and set the quill back in the inkwell. “Hopefully in a small cottage in Trenling woods, it needs some fixing, which is what I’m gonna do during the summer to keep myself busy. If not I can stay here while I look at other property listings around.”

“Okay,” Death nodded approvingly, “And what about the fact that you’re nineteen?”

Harry furrowed his brows, “I thought you would have set my birth records for sixteen so I can actually get into Hogwarts…”

“Oh, I did,” Death shrugged, much to Harry’s confusion, “but you’re still physically nineteen, posing as fifteen.” Harry glanced down at himself.

“You’re saying I look that much older than fifteen?” He raised an eyebrow, he was short for his age, and while he was stronger than when he was a kid, he was still a little on the scrawnier side, with all muscle he’d gained being lean.

“Well, I mean, you aren’t physically going to age anymore, so I guess it wouldn’t be so bad, but what if someone checked your age through a spell?”

Harry scrunched his nose, tilting his head, “They can do that? There’s actually a spell to check someone’s physical age?”

Death nodded, running a hand through his hair, black as night, and over his face of greyed skin. “Yes, it was invented during a war somewhere… I’m a little spotty on the details, coming from a being who has seen the birth and death of this Universe a thousand times, there’s been a lot of wars, but, in essence, a spellcrafter working for the military noticed more and more people underage were signing up to join the fight. He created a spell to check someone’s actual age.”

“Is that spell active now?” Harry asked, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, while it wasn’t too big of a deal, anyone having any kind of leverage over him would not be good, besides, Dumbledore was a smart, observant man—what if he noticed and cast the spell?

“No idea.”

“Well, you’re very helpful.”

“I am literally Death itself personified.”

Yes, indeed they were. Death was like no one Harry had ever met, with features somehow strong and soft at the same time, they looked both masculine and feminine, with long, curly hair to the shoulders. Their skin was grey like the dead, eyes eerily absent of light’s gentle life and colour; voice similar to the feature situation, somehow completely gender-neutral. They were certainly something.

Harry sighed, “can you trick the spell?”

He didn’t like the way Death hesitated before saying, “probably.”

“That… didn’t sound very confident, can you, or can you not, trick the spell?” He asked, shifting in his seat. Harry did not plan on admitting who he was to anyone, he just wanted to stay hidden in the shadows and change things from their comfort.

“If I was there when the spell was performed I can dampen and confuse it, but I can’t be there every second of every day, the best I can do is set some kind of detection for the spell and hope my reflexes are good.”

Harry blanched slightly, and his fingers settled into a white-knuckled grip on the arms of the wooden chair. “Hope your reflexes are good? What if they find out and I get kicked out of Hogwarts?!”

“Relax, I would step in at that point.” They waved a dismissive hand. Harry was only mildly comforted by that statement. “Okay, now, what’s your plan?”

He honestly wasn’t so sure, so, Harry answered that question with another, “how much can I change the timeline? What if I create a paradox?”

“You won’t, this is not the same world you left behind. This future is still malleable here, every time someone travels forward or backward in time, it creates a new timeline, a parallel world, you could say. You can’t do any harm by changing things.”

“So, theoretically, I could kill Tom Riddle and not be sucked into some kind of black hole?”

“Theoretically yes,” Death shot him an odd sort of look, “but you already said you weren’t going to kill him—not that I would stop you, or even complain, mind you.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, in reality, I just wanna go there to influence what little I can from the sidelines, I’m not planning on going there to do something so bold as to kill someone, or that, it’s more likely I’ll suggest people I knew who will die find somewhere else to stay during that date, or maybe try to tear away some of his followers through persuasion. I’m not entirely sure.” Harry admitted, “I’m not even completely positive about what I’m doing, if I’m honest.”

“That’s not always a bad thing, sometimes it’s better to go with the flow.”

“I suppose…”

“Good,” Death smiled, “then finish your letter and sleep. I’m going to head out now, but if you need me you can just call, but make sure it isn’t something minor, hear me?”

Harry nodded and picked the quill back up, preparing to draft a letter to Headmaster Dippet once more, as Death vanished silently.

~

Early morning at The Leaky Cauldron was a vapid affair, he awoke to the sun shining in his eyes, curtains drawn open wide, and a furious tapping at the window. He blinked the light from his eyes and let Nyx in with his letter, then he got dressed, headed down to get some breakfast, where the patrons of the building were quietly doing the same. He settled with a plate of hot food to read, having left his new owl up in the room with a few treats to keep her occupied. Mr. Hornpoult had answered his letter, letting him know that the home was still available, and asking if he was free that day to go and see it.

He could wait until he finished his eggs before he bothered going to try and write a response.

It went by quickly, and soon enough he’d sent his response and confirmed the time for eleven (waking up at the crack of dawn made that quite some time for him to get ready), and finally sent off the letter to Headmaster Dippet. Nyx had nipped him for that one.

He apparated there five minutes early, struggling only for a second before he made it to Trenling woods.

The gravel crunched firmly beneath his feet as he landed, and the sound of the birds chirping only stopped for a split second when the crack sounded, but it started up again seconds later.

The wards had been let down for the sale, and he glanced around, awed. The sky was just visible through gaps in the leaves and trees, towering oaks, maples, pines. He heard footsteps echoing ahead of him, and then an older man came into view. He was smiling, his hair salt-and-peppered black with gray, and he had a mess of unshaved stubble along his jawline. “Mr. Mondérobé, I presume?” He was dressed in what looked like typical muggle clothing for the time period, so he was probably either a half-blood or a muggleborn.

“Call me Harry, please,” it appeared everyone was interested by the French accent, because the man gave him a pleasantly surprised smile when he spoke, jutting out a hand for Harry to shake.

“Welcome, Harry then, welcome. I’m Mr. Hornpoult. I was surprised to hear from someone so soon, asking after my little cottage. Well, come on then, let me give you the grand tour.”

The driveway was surprisingly long, although he hadn’t known it at the time, and he was now being led swiftly towards a brown smudge in the distance.

It grew bigger and bigger until it eventually revealed a beautiful—if run-down—cottage.

Dark wood like chocolate rose high around him. They climbed the steps to a worn deck, which was sheltered by the balcony above, and held up with slender but sturdy logs. There was even a little garden, surrounded with fences, which stretched from the start of the deck outwards in both directions. Although, Harry had to admit it was pretty overgrown.

He was led into a lavish, open cottage, with plenty of free space. Some of the floorboards were damaged and would need replacing, clearly old and rotted, with some of the walls looking a little worse for wear, some bits even missing. It was worse from the inside, which hadn’t been quite as well-built as the inside. Ahead was a large staircase leading to the second floor, and a little behind that was a wall, with a slightly crumbled arch that he could see led into a kitchen, although before they looked inside he was pointed to an open door along the right wall, just in front of it. “First bathroom, there.” It was alright, but the bath, sink, and toilet clearly hadn’t been cleaned in a while.

Counters and cupboards above them lined the back and right wall, and there was an island occupying the middle of the tiled kitchen floor. It was large, with plenty of space to cook despite the outdated and slightly dirty stove and fridge. He would certainly spend quite some time in there, if he could find the time.

There was an open archway along the left wall, leading to the dining room. The wall that had blocked the kitchen off from the stairs and front door carried on for a good seven feet or so, before giving way to an open space Harry could only guess was meant to be the living room, which was open to the front door like the kitchen and dining room hadn’t been. The wall leading out to the back yard was pure glass, stretching from where the dividing wall where the kitchen ended, and ran along to where the wall completely stopped. There was even a fireplace in the living room, made of ancient, textured grey stone, and a dusted mantle with spaces where knickknacks had been were left clear. “All the bedrooms are upstairs, but first, there’s a study just there.” Mr. Hornpoult pointed to a small door along the wall to the left of the entranceway.

The stairs creaked ominously beneath their feet, but didn’t give way as they reached the top. Only a few feet ahead was a wall with three doors, all open. The ones on the left and right were bedrooms, each connected by the middle room, which was a small bathroom.

The upstairs space was much smaller, occupied by each of the bedrooms, and a library to the right. It was quite large, impressive he had to admit. It had to be the largest room in the house, though the formerly off-white carpet was farther from white than he thought possible. It had withered with time, and the copious coffee and tea stains helped none. There was, however, connected to one of the rooms and the library combined, a balcony, with an old, creaky wood door.

Mr. Horpoult was nearly silent as he led Harry around the house, giving each room a fond smile. Finally, the master bedroom. It was behind where you came up the stairs, along the front of the house, with its bathroom next to it. It connected directly to the library. You could see out the front of the house where the wall was made completely of glass, giving so much light, and a beautiful view. A long-cold fireplace was settled on the left wall, with ornate dark wood and silver stone.

Sure, the glass was covered in smears, the place was dusty and run-down, it was a little too lavish, but it was beautiful, and he loved it. He could envision it as a home

“Mr. Hornpout,” he said with a soft smile, “I’ll take it.”


End file.
